UNTRAINABLE
by Trikkster
Summary: The world believes she's guilty of heinous crimes. The system she's trusted attempts to break her mind. Wilone woman's belief in her own innocence maintain her sanity or prolong a horrible tragedy? Set in an AU presented by fanfic writer combatcrazy. No pairings. Warnings: torture/gore/effects of torture. PLEASE READ FOREWORD FOR FURTHER WARNINGS.
1. FOREWORD

**FOREWORD**

As of the year 2013, 355 terrorists reside under tight security within US prisons. Of these 355 terrorists, 216 are international terrorists, whilst 139 are domestic. These numbers do not include those who the US has imprisoned and sent to Guantanamo Bay.

If one takes the amount that taxpayers roughly pay to house a terrorist in such a manner and multiplies it accordingly by just the 355 terrorists being held in the continental United States, it can be deduced that at least 319,500,000 taxpayer dollars a year goes to housing these prisoners. As stated above, Guantanamo Bay's prisoners are separate from the 355 prisoners included in this equation, yet still take a chunk out of taxpayers' money.

When it comes down to it, United States Citizens are therefore paying more than a million dollars a year to keep alive and imprisoned people who at one point would have liked to see the United States and its people go up in flames, or some other form of destruction, when it wouldn't cost any more than $3.00 per prisoner to end all of the terrorist prisoners' lives for good.

Although it certainly would go against our justice system to just off any terrorist prisoner within custody, these facts make plain an argument that the justice system, while it does benefit in that it saves our country a bit more by holding these prisoners, does nothing useful for citizens financially. While prisoners go from place to place eating and living substandard yet still livable lives, hardworking US citizens work jobs that they may not even like day and night to pay for the accommodations of those prisoners. Not only does this seem unfair, it also seems counterproductive: work to sustain the lives of people who hate us with the possibility of getting nothing in return?

(How much sense does that make?)

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In an Alternate Universe NCIS storyline, amazing fanfiction writer combatcrazy provides for the reader a United States much like the one we face in reality but with a twist. In the stories "FORCED TRAINING" and "FORCED CONTROL", combatcrazy provides for the reader a United States that does not house terrorists in prisons, living off of taxpayer money. Instead, terrorists are forced to work for US Citizens, providing for them labor that repays the United States at least partially for the damage terrorist cells had done or would do in the future. How do the terrorists do this? Why, as slaves, of course.

After a series of staggering terrorist attacks, the United States government of "FORCED TRAINING" and "FORCED CONTROL" attempted to begin to solve the problem of terrorism by creating slave training facilities. These were locations where members of terrorist cells, individual terrorists, and those in league with terrorist cells would go to be broken down and trained to serve the US citizens they had plotted to take down. In this way, not only would terrorists be made to think twice before committing terrorist acts, but those who would be caught would be entered into a lifestyle of serving the country they had attempted to destroy, serving it both physically and financially (due to when they would be bought by their new Masters).

Most would think of this as a good and fair system. And perhaps to some, the ideology behind it makes perfect sense. But ideologies and systems are two different things. No human is perfect, and therefore the human-implemented system within combatcrazy's AU is fraught with imperfections.

These imperfections include unfair torture of the terrorist prisoners by their guards, as well as the enslavement of innocents. In "FORCED TRAINING" and "FORCED CONTROL", the first of these reasons is revealed to be the reason why NCIS Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs left behind his job as slave trainer in a Washington Slave Training Facility.

While this is a good reason in and of itself for Gibbs to have quit, one has to wonder, was there another, more specific reason? This fanfic seeks to provide that reason.

Having already gotten permission from combatcrazy, I shall now endeavor to write a fanfic set within the universe of "FORCED TRAINING" and "FORCED CONTROL". Whilst my fanfic is set prior to these two fantastic stories by combatcrazy, it is highly recommended that one read those amazing works before reading this one.

A brief summary of what is to come in this work:

Trapped within a world that believes her to be guilty, can one innocent woman manage to maintain her own sanity and free will? Or will the system around her tear her apart until there's nothing left but an empty shell?

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WARNING

(IN OTHER WORDS, AFTER THIS, YOU READ AT YOUR OWN RISK, AND I DON'T WANT ANY FLAMERS THAT WOULD SAY THINGS THAT WOULD LEAD ME TO BELIEVE THAT YOU DID NOT ABIDE BY THIS WARNING PROPERLY):

There will be psychological, emotional, physical, and sexual torture, as well as the effects of said torture, within this story. While I will try to even out everything in this story, it is from the pov of the woman, and so obviously, there will be no avoiding the torture.

While this story may not end tragically, it is not a fluffy fairy tale. There are no magic wands that can wish the effects of what the woman of the story goes through. If you want a fanfic like that, I'm sure there are plenty others here on to choose from. This story is rated M and due to the genre settings, I would imagine that if you were looking for something pretty and frilly, you clicked on this story by mistake.

I hope not to insult the United States Government, NCIS, combatcrazy, or anyone else with the publication of this work. This is just a philosophical conundrum I thought up while reading combatcrazy's stories which I have chosen to present to you all in order to merely generate thought. Nothing more, nothing less.

Now, if you're still reading this, and are interested in reading further, by all means, go on ahead! I REALLY ENCOURAGE REVIEWS, ESPECIALLY CONSTRUCTIVE ONES THAT HELP ME IMPROVE AS A WRITER!

Disclaimer: I do not own the plots of combatcrazy's stories "FORCED TRAINING" or "FORCED CONTROL". All original ideas from those stories belong to combatcrazy. I do not own any characters of NCIS. All original characters, locations, etc. belong to the writers of the show. All I own are any original characters I have put in this story as well as the plot to this story.

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I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to read combatcrazy's stories!


	2. PROLOGUE

DISLCAIMER: SAME AS FOREWORD

Prologue

I never thought it'd be possible to feel nothing. Neither happiness nor sadness, neither love nor hate, neither anger nor fear. Just . . . nothing. A blank abyss residing where my heart once was, a black hole inside of my body sucking up any and all emotion. A hollow, beaten shell where a soul used to reside. I never thought it was possible to feel nothing and live. I felt that feeling was a part of life. I guess I was wrong.

Then again, I do feel something. I feel pain. I feel pain tighten in my chest with every breath I take, I feel pain in my empty stomach, I feel pain from all the bruises and cuts dotting my body, and I feel pain from my burned eyes which have become almost permanently swollen shut. Every part of me hurts, so much so that at times, I get so accustomed to the pain that I forget it's even there. I guess that's why I thought I felt nothing before. I forgot the pain.

Perhaps it's the pain that keeps me living, that keeps my spirit tethered to this body locked up in a system that only wants to see it used, abused, and ultimately destroyed. But I don't blame the system. It only made a mistake. It's not the system's fault. But it's not mine either.

I'm trapped in the system by a dark plot created by someone who was higher in authority than me. I guess they're still higher than me, since I've now sunk down to the status of almost-nothing. Soon I won't even be that. They say that in a week's time, I'll be absolutely nothing at all. I won't think, I won't feel, I'll only do as I'm told. I don't know what's going to make me that way, but I highly doubt that everything will occur the way they plan. After all, nothing's happened the way they planned before.

As I lay here in my cell, I think of all the things they've tried to use to break me down. Every rape, every beating, every torture and torment. All meant to beat me down, to force me to accept a fate that's not mine to have. Why is it not mine to have? Because I don't deserve it. I used to try to tell them that, but that would only lead to more pain. No one understood. Perhaps no one ever will. After all, no one will ever believe a traitor. Certainly not them. Quite frankly, if I were on the outside looking in as they are now, I don't think I would believe me either.

I suck in a deep, painful breath through my murky lungs-I think I'm getting pneumonia, in fact I think I've had it for quite some time now- and let my skeletal form heave forward, letting the breath out through thin, chapped and split cheeks. As I let the breath out, my stomach gives another surge of pain. I suppose it no longer has the strength to growl. I can't blame it for that or the pain. I guess I haven't been fair to it, what with my latest hunger strike. At least now my stomach doesn't get tempted as cruelly as it was before . . . they've given up on bringing me the meager amounts of nutrients that they pass off as meals. There are times when I think back on what they used to give me where I wonder what my stomach misses so much about those "meals". These people, they haven't given me anything adequate, really. At least, not by normal societal standards as I remember them . . . But again, it's not their fault. They don't know any better. All they see when they look at me is a traitor.

But what do I see when I see myself? I grunt and painfully squeeze my chemically scarred eyes open. My vision is blurry. I wonder if it will ever be like it once was. . . But despite my blurred vision, I am able to see the purple and black and yellow and blue bruises and the cuts on my stick-like arms. Seriously, they really are sticks. I'm not sure if there's much muscle-or fat . . . or anything but tone, really- left in them at all. What bone is there is super brittle. I'm pretty sure most of the bones have been fractured, if not broken. Not that any of those fractures or breakages have been aided medically in healing. I'm not worth that, they say. They're mistaken, but no one can blame them.

If there's one thing I've noticed, it's that as my body has grown weaker due to lack of proper nutrients or medication, the more my bruises have lasted and shown against my pail skin. I run my de-fingernailed fingers from my right arm run along my left arm, stopping at each bruise as I mentally count the bruises off. _1 . . . . 2 . . . . 3 . . . 4. . . 5 . . . 6. . . 7 . . . . 8 . . . 9. . . _Suddenly, the tumblers on the locks of my cell door are rolling and thumping, and I lift my head, squinting across my blurred cell to where I know my large square steel prison cell door is. Unlike the rest of my room which is solid gray stone walls, floor, and ceiling which have been here since generations past, the door was replaced when the current facility I find myself in was turned into a "Final Destination" slave training facility. It's a place for temporarily housing the "UNTRAINABLES" as slaves like me are called. Apparently we're "handled" here, whatever that means. But like I mentally noted before, nothing they've tried to use to "handle" me has worked before. So why should this place be any different? Often times I think that I will just waste away before I can be "handled". Most of those times, I pray for that merciful fate to come as quickly as possible.

As the door's handle is heard turning in its gritty fashion, I hang my skull-like head forward and lower my eyes. I focus my eyes on the zipper of the front of my dirty orange jumpsuit. . . "_The best thing you can do in your situation is to keep your mouth shut and your eyes down. I highly suggest you doing that, unless you want more punishment," _the harsh voice of my first Slave Trainer resounds in my head, and I sigh. Whether I like it or not, he was right. And so I keep my eyes down now, focusing on my musty suit. I give a rattling sigh.

I've had some of my sicker days recently and the smell is quite putrid from the messed up seat of the suit. Quite frankly, I need to be cleaned and changed into a new one at this point. But unfortunately, there are no utensils with which I can do that here. On top of that, two days ago I lost the ability to obtain the strength needed to stand up, much less maneuver myself to the point needed to clean myself. I divert my eyes from my damp and musty jumpsuit in favor of the one source of light in my cell: the sun shining through the bars of the small window above my head. I tell my days and nights by this small ray of light from the outside. Ever since they stopped coming to check on me daily, this has been my only clock.

I hear their boots on the stone cold floor of my cell as they approach me. I count their footsteps . . . _1. . . 2. . . 3 . . . . 4 . . . . 5 . . . . 6 . . . . 7. . . ._ I know how many it will take to get to me. When I used to have the strength to stand, I kept myself as sane as possible by pacing my cell and counting the length and width of it using my steps. _20 . . . . 21 . . . . 22. . . . _They are here. I see their boots as the two pairs of the tips of combat boots stop just inches from my legs which are laid out flat before me. I gaze at the toes of the shoes as the men shift their weight.

I wonder why they seem to feel so awkward after so many months during which I've only perceived confidence in the men handling me, and I chance a glance up, breathing out raspily and painfully as I lift my head, tilting my bony chin to gaze at them, my hands lying defenseless and passive in my lap, the simple act of raising my head tiring and painful. They are two guards in long black suits. I wonder if the suits are jumpsuits like mine, or if they are divided into separate parts. I can tell that they are both men, primarily since women rarely work in these facilities. Both are wearing pitch black helmets that cover their faces. All I can see are their black visors. But that's not what draws my attention to their masks. . . I'm used to their black visors. What I'm not used to are the unmistakable sounds of their breathing masks.

Is the stench really that bad coming from my jumpsuit? Is it dangerous? I suppose I wouldn't know. For me, it's a normal smell now. Suddenly I wonder if it's more than just a stench . . . what if it's something else? Am I in a process of decay, here, at this facility? At long last? I hope that I am . . . finally, my end may be near!

The guard on the left reaches down and grips my left arm in his iron fist. I show no outward recognition of the pain that I feel as that arm's humerus moans in pain, being so brittle that the man's grip sends a sharp pain shooting through it. I know there will be a nasty bruise in the shape of his gloved hand on that arm later. Another one to count. Will it be number 25 or number 26? I'm not sure if I remember how many I already had.

"_You have a visitor, traitor," _the guard gripping my arm snarls, and he pulls me up quickly. I grunt in surprise, blinking in confusion at his words. _A visitor? They've never let me see a visitor before . . . or perhaps no visitor has wanted to come to see me. . . I know I wouldn't want to see me. . . _a groan escapes my split and blood caked lips as my legs, too weak to support my meager weight, buckle beneath me and I fall towards the floor.

"_Hell_," a mechanical sounding voice from the right side guard's mask snarls. Both of their voices sound mechanical, unnatural, through the masks. If I weren't used to inhumane treatment, I'd probably be freaked out by that. But inhumaneness is the only thing I've grown used to, and so the voices are no surprise to me. Nothing about my life, well, nothing that has become normal in my life seems human anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I'm still human. The right guard grabs my right arm and twists it roughly to hold me up. I moan weakly at the pain, but am ignored by the two men. They have an agenda, and my feelings are of no concern to them.

The two men work quickly and efficiently to bend my arms with their popping, rusty joints behind my back before snapping two steel hand cuffs onto my sore, thin wrists. That having been done, they lay me on the front of my torso on the cold floor before gripping my thin ankles and pulling them up in the air behind me. I sigh deeply, my chin resting on the cold stone floor, and close my eyes slowly, rebelling not once to their treatment of me. I have by now grown used to such handling. This is all they think I deserve, and because they have more power than me, this is all I shall get. So I just lay here, breathing hard through my mouth and nose as they work at binding my body, feeling the way that my ribs creak as they are pressed down by my small amount of body weight into the floor... I wonder if they'll break one day as this happens. I wonder if then these people will finally let me die. Probably not. They have plans for me . . . and they need my body to be at least functioning in order for those plans to take place.

I feel them clamp two more handcuffs around my ankles and listen to them run the standard silver link chain that they take from a pocket of their uniforms through the chains between the cuffs on my ankles and the cuffs on my wrists, pulling the silver chain into a loop that holds the two handcuff chains so close together that I am essentially hogtied. I groan through my teeth and arch my head back in agony in response to the pain such a position elicits within my aching body. After being in the same position for so long, to be forced into this new one is quite agonizing. Of course, my groan goes by unacknowledged.

"_She'll need a good rinsin', and a new suit," _one of the guards, I don't know who, mutters. I just sigh and as my body grows used to this new position and the pain it feels lowers in intensity, rest my chin back on the floor. The rough stone scrapes against my skin, and I begin to bleed just a little. I know that they wouldn't care even if they noticed. I know I wouldn't if the roles were reversed. . .

The men appear to be finished observing my body's general condition, because in that instant the one on my right grabs the back of my neck and lifts my head up as the other shoves a burlap sack over my head, blocking the world around me from my sight. They need not do that. My eyes are so very sore that I cannot keep them open for one more moment. I groan gently and close my eyes, giving them the rest that they long for. I feel the men's hands hook under my armpits, and then feel myself roughly lifted up into the air. I hang between them, breathing raspily from behind the bag, my ribs having moved back out to their standard positions due to the lack of compression that came with my body being lifted off of the ground. I pant heavily, my lungs now gasping for air as they are released from the compressed position, and I feel bad for them because all they can find to breathe is the stale air within the bag. I lull my head back on my shoulders and sigh deeply. Waiting for what happens next.

The men are moving me through the air, out of my cell, and down hallways. I focus my mind on how many turns we make, attempting to focus on anything but the harsh pain their grips on my arms create. There's one turn, then another, then another. I continue to count until I've reached 25. Then I hear the sounds of their boots on new flooring material, something other than the stone floors of the halls and cells of this facility. It's tile, I think. I can't be sure . . . next I hear the lock that was used to secure the chain linking my hands to my ankles being undone. In the next instant, my ankles fall to the ground, un-cuffed. I groan lightly as my toes run against the cold surface beneath my suspended body. I grunt and flex my toes, allowing the bottoms of the digits to run along the surface, spreading out a little to assess what it is. Yes, it is definitely tile.

I then feel the presence of more people around me and groan as they begin to unzip my suit and undo my handcuffs. Luckily, some of them hold me up so that I don't fall and hurt myself on the tile floor. In what seems to be no time at all, they have peeled off and removed my orange suit and have recuffed my hands together over my head. With remarks of disgust as some of them even spit at my body in derision, they back away, ripping off the burlap sack from my head as they do so. And I gasp into my pleading lungs the air of the room, my eyes opening wider than they've been in months as the bright light of the room floods my vision.

It's been days since I last as brought into this room . . . maybe a week? I'm not entirely sure. I tilt my head back, breathing raspily as I gaze up at the shower head hanging down from the ceiling. A chain has been slid through my hand cuff chains and then around a pole in the ceiling, forcing my hands up above my head. I grunt, and a moment later, highly pressurized water sprays down upon my head. I turn my head back down, close my eyes, and sigh. I'll no doubt be covered in bruises due to the water pressure . . . a spray of water strikes my bony back side. I jump at the sudden smack of water, and feel it travel over me as the guards in this room monitor the direction of the hose's water jet as it cleans off my backside. After I settle down to the new pressure of the water on my body, I wait for the guards to finish. It's all I can do. It's all I ever do . . . wait . . . nothing I do can change my situation, so why bother doing anything in an attempt to change it?

Minutes later, the men have put my sprayed down body into a brand new jumpsuit and have hogtied me as they had before. Once they put the sack over my head, they're carrying me down another hallway, out of the shower room. I feel the temperature change as I am carried suspended between the two guards. I feel a sudden warmth hit the air. I had not noticed just how cold it was before. . .

As the temperature around me gradually rises, I begin to wonder who my visitor is . . . is it someone from my old team? Is it a government official trying to convince me to just give in and accept my role? Is it both? Either way, it will do nothing to change my situation. I refuse to give in, no matter what anyone says. I may have lost all but one last wavering fragment of my soul and I may silently plead for my death to come, but I will not hand over the one thing to which I still cling to the government: my belief in my own innocence. I will not deny that and give in. it is the one thing I have left. The one thing that keeps my mind together. . . I draw in a raspy breath, and my chest tightens up in pain again. . . I would rather die than do that.

I am finally un-hogtied and sat in a cold metal chair. I can feel the chill of the piece of furniture through my jumpsuit. My hands are grabbed roughly and moved quickly over my head to be in front of me, pressed against a table. I groan as my shoulders pop at the sudden moves this elicits from my joints. The men don't take notice. The bag is wrenched off my head.

I immediately shut my sensitive eyes, groaning, bowing my head towards the table top. This room is much brighter than I'm used to . . . even brighter than the shower room . . . slowly, as I hear chains rattling, I lift my head with a low groan and look around me. There's a black opaque window along one wall, but other than that the room is made up of white painted brick. I am currently seated at a cold metal table. I watch with half lidded eyes as the men tether my bony arms to the table via sliding a chain through my hand cuff chain. The new chain is then locked into a loop that runs a metal ring set firmly into the table top.

Once I am secured, the man on my left turns to me and grabs my bony chin harshly between his fingers, wrenching my head back. I make no noise other than that involved in my raspy breathing as I gaze up at his mask with my dull, damaged eyes. He growls through his mask, _"Behave yourself." _I blink in return at him, uttering not a single word. _"Understand?!" _he snarls. I close my sore eyes and breathe hard through my nose, gritting my teeth. I refuse to say anything to anyone in these facilities except the phrase "I am innocent, the government has made a mistake, and I have done nothing wrong". I resolved to do that a long time ago, and although it's been months since I was read them, I remember my Miranda Rights well. For me, they still hold true . . . unfortunately, silence is not the response the guard wants . . . that harsh hit comes against my right cheek and my neck cracks as my face is flung to the side due to the force of his anger. My nose begins to bleed and I whimper gently through my shuddering lips, blood dribbling down into my mouth which now has a new cut on its lower lip. I spit the blood out of my mouth as my entire body trembles from the pain I feel from his hit. I know I'll have an awful bruise later on my face. _"You ungrateful whore. . ." _he spits at me, then turns and walks out, _"You deserve whatever you get here. . . Disrespecting your betters . . . after all you've been through, I'd think you'd have learned not to do that." _the door is slammed behind me. I jump at the sudden sound. And then I wait.

I stare down at my bony wrists as I wait for my visitor, my eyes swollen and half lidded. I've long since stopped spitting out the blood that has gone into my mouth from my nose bleed. I just let the blood on the outside roll on down my chin and onto my prison jumpsuit and the blood that might seep into my mouth just run down my throat as I swallow. What's the point in stopping it, anyway? I suck in a deep breath, my chest once more tightening in pain, and then let it out through trembling lips.

I close my eyes, giving them once again the rest that they crave. I used to try to envision how I once was when I did this, but now, I can't. So many times, it seems as though my suffering never began because I can't remember when it started. And even those times when I am able to remember when it started, it's hard to envision myself as the proud person I once was. It gets harder and harder to imagine how proud I could have been, what with what's happened. That person seems so different from what I am now . . . as if I could have never been her . . . now I'm a prisoner, dependent on ruthless guards to be able to stand on legs that once carried me so proudly and firmly in the world . . . maybe that's too harsh a word . . . ruthless, I mean . . . I guess, with the guards, I don't view them as ruthless . . . maybe misunderstanding. . . or ignorant. . .but not ruthless. They are merely doing what they have been trained to do . . . they are serving their country in the best way they know how.

I sigh deeply, my lungs and rib cage trembling with the effort. More blood drips on the table. I wonder what they would feel like if they ever learned the truth about me, if they learned that I am in fact as innocent as I claim. . . I'm sure they would feel awful. . . I don't want them to feel awful . . . they're only serving their country . . . just like I would if I were them. . . I hope they never find out. . . I truly do . . . even if it leads to my death, I hope they don't ever have to know. No matter what my guards have all done to me, I don't want them to know. I don't want any of them to know . . . as long as I know, that's all that matters. At that moment, the door grates open at the other end of the room, and I hear a sharp intake of breath.

I groan, and forcing my sore, swollen eyes open, look up. Although my vision is blurry, I see the blonde hair of my sister's head, and I know that it is my sister standing across the room from me. I'm not sure how I know who it is. . . perhaps it's just me assuming. . . maybe I think that she is the only person who would come to visit someone in my situation. . . I'm not sure. All I know is that I just know it's her . . . and then I worry.

I worry what she feels like, seeing me like this. I haven't seen myself since the last time I went to the "good doctor" here at this facility and was made to stand before a large mirror. Then, it was as if I was looking through a portal at a creature that was far from what I had remembered about my appearance. The figure before me was so skinny that it brought to mind pictures of Holocaust victims I'd seen back at school. I remember staring at what appeared to be a walking skeleton staring with sunken yet swollen dead eyes right back at me. My skin, which had once been so tan, was deathly pale and littered with bruises and injuries. My exposed breasts-they'd wanted the largest mental effect for the image they were going to show me, so they'd stripped me of my jumpsuit-held the branded letters of U and T, standing for "UNTRAINABLE", which is the label that the government had given me as I exited my last facility.

My long lank body was standing feebly before the mirror, my wispy, dry, and even in places broken dull brunette hair moving about my skull like face. My lips were cracked and split, my nose was slightly disfigured. My eyes had a glazed over look to them. The skin around my eyes was scarred. My hands looked unnatural, what with their lack of fingernails, as did my feet. Old acid burns that had turned into scars lined my body in various places, avoiding only my nether regions and breasts. They dotted my face, working up in small spots up to the large gashes of scars around my eyes. The only part of me that wasn't bony was my distended abdomen, which they were treating with an onslaught of antibiotics that left me far too weak to move after it was discovered that I had contracted an intestinal worm. There are nights during which my abdomen squirms in hunger and at those times I think the worm is still there, despite what they said about it being gone, moving around inside of me. When they originally found the worm, they spoke as if it was my fault that the contaminated food that I'd been given had caused the worm's growth. I suppose them blaming me should come as no surprise. I've been hoisted with so much deadly guilt when it has not been deserved that another bit of guilt shouldn't startle me. By all means, the guilt can have this horrific shell of a body, the only remnant left of what I once was before all this started.

Yes, even with my blurred vision, I was able to see the monster that I'd been turned into, and so now I can only imagine what my dear sister must see when she looks at me. "Don't be afraid," I whisper through cracked lips, some blood dripping from my bottom lip to the table top. It is the first utterance I've made other than my own mantra in three years, and I feel as though it is not a very comforting or adequate consolation for her. But it is the best I can give to her as she stands at the other side of the room. For the first time in three years, I feel true utter shame wash over me as she stands there without speaking. I sigh a rattled breath, and my pneumonia acts up. I hack up a few more coughs, my body spasming in pain with each one, before I am too exhausted to cough anymore and simply slump forward in the chair, head bowed, eyes closed. I hear her move forward and sit down in the chair that has been placed across from me and I wait for her to speak. Then, I feel it. The cool touch of leather on my chin as she tilts my head up ever so gently. I breath raspily as she moves a cloth handkerchief she has pulled from her pocket over my lips and face, cleaning away my blood and spittle, a small act of kindness that means so much more to me than I ever could have imagined it meaning, as she whispers, _"Oh, sissy. I never imagined that they would do this to you. . ." _I shudder at her use of such an affectionate nickname for me, having not been used to any affection for so long, and hang my head forward as she moves her hands away from me. I wait for her to speak, wait for that soft, sweet voice of innocence to float to my ears. After so many months of listening to harsh or manipulative voices, I crave my sister's sweet, gentle tones. I would look at her and savor the sight of her, a kind sweet face to remember in my sea of torment and pain, but my eyes seem to be far too heavy lidded to do that. I cannot open them due to soreness and tiredness.

_"Do you know how long you've been at this facility?" _my sister . . . what was her name? Ahhh, yes, Charlotte. . . Charlotte . . . what a beautiful name. . . I always thought it was a bit too extravagant for her growing up, but here, now, it seems so very appropriate and beautiful. . . yes, my sister Charlotte. . . wait, she asked me a question. . . I force my tired jaws apart. They're really starting to swell from where the guard struck them, _"A . . . a little over 5 months. . . I think . . . it's hard to keep track sometimes. . ." _I manage raspily, and then give another harsh coughing fit. My whole body seizes in pain and I shake in my chair, my fists clinching as tightly as possible. She waits for my coughing fit to pass, then whispers, _"I would have come sooner, sissy, but they wouldn't let me . . . I tried so, so very hard . . . they say that the only reason they're allowing me access now is because you're near the end of . . . of your training . . . OH SISSY!" _here her voice cracks, and I jump as she lunges forward and clasps my thin hands in her own, stronger hands. I groan gently at the painful grip, _"I cannot believe that they have done this to you! How could they do this?" _she sobs brokenly. _"It's not their fault," _I whisper quickly, eyes shut tight, clenching my fists tighter together as they are encased in the leathery warmth of her own hands, _"There's just been a mistake. They don't know I'm innocent. They never have." _She suddenly strokes my knuckles, sighing, _"Maybe they will though. . ." _I tilt my head up a little, still unable to see properly. That doesn't mean I can't hear her though, and so I hold my head there. Waiting for her to continue.

_"Sissy, even though I haven't been able to get to see you, I've been working hard. I've been working with a very skilled team from New York to help prove your innocence. And I think I may be close to a break through! I just need a little more time. If you could just hold on a little bit longer, you could be free within two weeks' time! That's how long they say you have until your operation! But you just gotta hold on a little bit longer. . ." _I frown at her words.

I so very badly want to believe that what she says is true, that she is close to a break through. . . that perhaps . . . maybe. . . my innocence could be proven. . . this evil dark plot could come to an end. . . and my existence as a nothing, a nonentity, would end. . . but I've been told so many things, I've been lied to or mocked so very many times. . . that I feel that I can't believe in her words. . . but I can't let her know this. . . I can't let her know that I feel the hope she offers is false in my heart of hearts . . . she's worked so hard already . . . like I want my guards to go on believing I am guilty and what they've done is right, I want my dear sister Charlotte to believe that what she's done will ultimately pay off and prove my innocence . . . no matter how much I don't honestly believe in such a possibility.

I force a weak smile, _"I'll try. . . Charlotte, I'll try." _She gives my hands a little squeeze. I grit my teeth against the groan that fights to escape my throat at the slight pain this produces, and she continues, _"Sissy, I've. . . I've talked to people . . . psychologists. . . I know that your mind is in a fragile state, I know that you feel unsure. . . that you. . . that your sanity may be slipping. . . they. . . they've told me you just need something to focus your mind on. . . that if you focus your mind on something, you can hold on just a bit longer here. . . so . . . I got you something. . ." _her hands leave mine, and despite the pain that had been dealt to me through her tight grip, I long for her contact again. I hear her rummaging in a bag, and I feel her slide something to be right in front of my hands on the table. _"Look, look sissy, please." _

I force my swollen eyes open, trying to use all of my strength to please my dear sister, and blink at what is in front of me, bringing it slowly into focus. It's a black leather book by the looks of it, with nothing special on the cover. I slowly extend my fingers to pick it up, but then pause. Am I allowed? I know not the rules. . ._ "I've gotten it cleared, Sissy, just take it," _she whispers gently, reaching out and stroking the backs of my knuckles gently, encouraging me to continue towards the book.

I blink, gulp a little, and reach out, running my fingertips gently over the leather cover of the book. The cool material runs under my fingers, and I breathe out a raspy breath. Moving to the hem and edge of the front cover, I open it slowly. And gaze at the white sheet of paper within. I run my fingers over the sheet, and slowly, tug the book closer for further inspection. There are lines on the paper, but other than that it remains blank. I look through various sheets. It's all blank. _"It's a journal," _she explains, _"For you to write things down in," _I close the book slowly, and place my two hands over it, gripping it so tightly around its edges that my bony knuckles grow white. I close my eyes and whisper, _"Why?" _

Almost immediately, I rebuke my statement. My sister, who has gone through so much to get me such a nice book, when she doesn't even have to come to visit me at all, deserves a better response than _"Why?" _I feel shame wash over me as I think of how cruel I've just been. Surely she will cry now. Surely she will hate me. Surely she will grab the journal from me and rush from the room, never wanting to see me again. . . I know she will despise me, I just know it! She doesn't do any of that. Instead, she reaches out and covers my hands gently with her own, continuing to stroke my skin calmly, soothingly.

"_I want you to write down everything that has happened to you, sissy. By writing it down, perhaps you can approach what has happened to you from the viewpoint of an observer, not just a part of the plot. Maybe you can then start to heal from what you're going through and what you've been through. Hopefully, that way, you can make it through the next two weeks. . ." _she whispers to me, _"You can use this pen. . ." _she slides a sleek metal pen beneath my fingers, between them and the cool leather of the book, _"The guards will watch you at all times so . . . so please don't try to commit suicide . . . don't take your own life, dear sissy, please! I know it's hard now, but it'll get better! I promise! You've just got to hold on a bit longer! And writing your story in this journal will help! If you find it hard at first, write it as if you're writing a letter to some anonymous person! The psychologist said that would help! . . . Whatever you do, please keep writing in the journal. . . I need you to hold on sissy . . . just a little bit longer! Promise me! Please promise me you'll keep writing!" _

I can hear how desperate she is from her tone, and I feel my heart sink for her. She's trying so hard to keep me alive. To keep me sane. She's trying so hard to save me . . . but is there anything more to be saved? I'm not so sure anymore . . . but I can't let her know how hopeless my situation is. I can't let her lose more hope in me. I know how hard it must be for her to look upon me. I know how hard it's been for her to come here and see me. I can't let her down . . . not any more than my appearance already has. I suck in a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain my body feels with even that effort, and forcing my eyes open, I look up at her. I offer her my strongest smile before whispering, _"I'll keep writing. For as long as I can." _And I will. It's the least that I can do for her.

I can't help but feel invaded now as I sit quietly in my cell. I glance up at the two guards standing on either side of my door, on the inside now. They're only blurry images, but I know they're both looking at me as I hold my new journal and pen. I know they're ready to attack should I try to take my own life. They need not worry. I know it will upset my sister now if I take my own life, and so I don't dare to do such a thing. I sigh deeply and turn back to the journal, and run my fingernail-less hands over the cover. The final words my sister whispered to me as she was led from the visiting room run through my mind: _"Just write as if you were writing to someone you don't know. Explain your side of the story. Tell what has happened to you. Let them know how you feel, and how you've felt."_

I frown and slowly, as if the book is far too delicate and could break under my coarse hands at any moment, slide my fingertips beneath the cover of it, between the cover and the cool white and blue lined pages of the book, and gently raise the cover up and off of the first page. I turn to my pen and click the tip out of it. It's a nice round tip, not dangerous at all unless I really try to hurt myself or others with it. I turn back to the journal, and smooth a hand over the first page, wincing at the dirt that is left by my actions. Once again I am reminded that I am too undeserving of this fine book. I doubt I'll write perfectly along the lines, what with my vision. I shouldn't have been given the right to hold the journal at all. I should just put it down and never write a single word. But that's not what my sister wants. And I must respect her wishes, after all that she has done to get me this book. It is with that reasoning that I put the pen's tip to the first line of the first page, and pause. What should I call this work of literature of mine? What is the proper term?

I know it need not be anything too fancy. At this point in my life, I'm far too undeserving for anything like that. And yet, it has to describe the work of fiction in just the right way. So how to describe this work of fiction, the story of my life? At that moment, I am once again mentally bombarded with the image of what remains of myself which I perceived upon looking into the "good doctor's" mirror. I see the skeletal frame, the unsightly bodily features . . . the "U" and "T" forever branded on my left and right breasts. . . And I know what to put. The word that I've striven to remain through my mantra of innocence, that I'm now called by those who look down upon me. . . It is with this revelation of the title of my work that I suck in a deep, painful breath and put on the first line of the first page of this journal my sister has given to me- an undeserving shell of the person I once was, a monster that strikes fear into the eyes of the ones I love- the title of my tale:

**UNTRAINABLE**


End file.
